


Seven Sweet Sins

by GiulsTheGrey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Quote: Tartan is stylish (Good Omens), Sushi, barbershop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27776596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiulsTheGrey/pseuds/GiulsTheGrey
Summary: *His books are his most precious belonging, they comfort him when he feels alone, hopeless, sad. They make him laugh, cry and rejoice. They give him answers to questions he wouldn't dare asking anyone. Each of them holds a dream.*
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 22





	Seven Sweet Sins

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably some kind of character study. I had this little Aziraphale in my head, enjoying all his simple (and sinful?) habits and I just had to write it.

Today Aziraphale leaves the shop early in order to go to the barber. He goes regularly to the same parlour to get a little trim. This particular barbershop has been there since when the bookshop opened in 1800 and has always been run by the same family, the Baileys. There is no other barbershop in London, and probably in the whole world, which is just that old-fashioned - meaning vintage-looking and furnished with traditional tools -, known enough to earn nicely but never crowded, and run by such a healthy, lucky family of incredibly competent barbers.

So Aziraphale has been visiting this shop for more than 200 years. To any other person, that may have seemed quite bizarre, but the Baileys have gotten used to it. And why would they ever complain? ‘Mr Fell’ is the perfect customer: he’s a regular, he’s polite and engages in pleasant small talks and he leaves generous tips (completely different from a red-haired friend he sometimes brings with him. That man is grumpy and slightly scary).

Aziraphale always gets the complete treatment: gents cut, wet shave and face massage. He seems oblivious of the fact that his hair simply doesn't grow (even if a great-great-grandfather of the currently-in-charge Bailey had written on the family records that, around 1860, Aziraphale had grown sideburns, to the shop’s owner amazement), but he is always so serene when he goes there that they don't have the heart to tell him it's completely useless. 

Today, as soon as one of the Baileys finishes this little ritual, Aziraphale admires the result in the mirror, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Wonderful!” he says and the barber knows, as always, that he’s being honest. 

“Would you like to purchase a new cologne today?” Bailey’s wife asks. “We just received a new collection of fragrances. I have selected a couple I think you may appreciate!”

“Oh, yes please! I happened to have almost finished the last one.”

So Mrs Bailey shows him the perfume section. “This one is light and sweet, similar to the ones you usually wear. But I thought you may be eager for a change: this one is more daring, with a spiced note.” Aziraphale smells them both and, feeling rather bold, goes for the ‘daring’ one.

Before leaving, he checks himself once more in the mirror and adjusts his tartan bow tie. The barber and his wife know what he’s going to say, so they anticipate him, speaking in unison: “Tartan is stylish!”. 

Aziraphale laughs and, once outside, blesses the place once more. 

Aziraphale has some time before his lunch reservation, so he can stroll around, simply enjoying the world he helped saving. He's lost in thoughts of books, food and demon when his eyes inadvertently rest on a couple, seated on a bench. Kissing quite… ravenously. _Snogging,_ Crowley would say. He stops, almost unconsciously, and watches them for a while. He feels a strange pang in his chest, accompanied by some unpleasant thoughts.

_They are free to do what they want, when they want. They are free, while I, an ethereal being, must always watch my back... Right, it’s not exactly like that anymore, Crowley and I made sure of it, but still…_

He recalls all the times he had to restrain himself because he was afraid of Heaven’s and Hell’s reactions. He remembers all the precautions he took to be sure not to be seen with his friend. How many times, after being forced to part ways with the demon, had he looked at humans and thought, “Why can't we just be as free and careless as they are?” Oblivious, lucky creatures.

Now Aziraphale is free too, but… but there is something about humans that he still can't quite grasp, like the way they are able to do so much with such little time. He finds incredible how fast and frequently they make choices. He will never be able to compare… Actually, many humans struggle with choices too, but the thought doesn't even cross Aziraphale's mind because, you know, the grass is always greener on the other side...

Suddenly, he realises he’s been staring for a bit too long and that he's being a bit too gloomy for an angel, so he shrugs and resumes his stroll, smiling. But that unpleasant sensation that has stricken him before, a funny mixture of yearning and dissatisfaction, is still there. 

Finally, it’s 12 o'clock! Aziraphale walks in the sushi restaurant he selected for today, already savouring what is surely going to be a pleasant meal. He sits at his usual table and the sushi chef, Akinori, greets him warmly from the kitchen. Aziraphale doesn't need to order, the cook is already preparing his favourite. It will take some time, because Akinori only uses fresh ingredients and prepares almost nothing in advance. “Waiting is part of the pleasure” he would tell Crowley if he was there too, and Crowley would shrug and ‘ngk’, because he's known to have a thin patience. Apart from his refined tastes for wine, the demon is not one to savour things: the few times he had ordered some sushi (Aziraphale suspects it was only because he had insisted that his friend should try it at least once), he had gobbled it down his throat in one snaky movement. Luckily, Akinori wasn’t watching. The sushi chef would have been terribly mortified by such a careless behaviour concerning his cuisine!

As his dish arrives, full of the best selection of sushi you could find in London (maki, sashimi, nigiri, onigiri…), Aziraphale is so eager that he almost glows. He picks his chopsticks, dips the first sushi roll in soy sauce and brings it slowly to his mouth. He takes his time to savour it, to untangle all the flavourful layers, to find out which unusual ingredient Akinori has used this time. Sometimes he wonders how it is possible that eating is such a divine experience! How can some people eat only because they must? How can they not care about the vast spectrum of sensations which unravels as food reaches someone’s taste buds? 

Preposterous, really! 

Once finished, Aziraphale walks back to the bookshop. His mind wanders again on pleasant matters: a remake of Macbeth next week, vintage wine, his appointment at the tailor (he terribly wants to commission a new elegant suit. His current clothes are fine but he’s more than eager to dress up when going to the theatre), an evening with a demon… 

As he’s thinking about Crowley, he passes the exact spot where Uriel, Sandalphon and Michael had shoved him against the wall. There are two ways - at least, two ways that he knows of - to do such a thing: one is… somehow nice, while the other is not. The angels’ way of shoving him against that wall hadn't been nice. It had been awful, unfair and impolite. He would have added _demonic_ to these series of adjectives if he hadn't found Crowley’s way of shoving him against the convent’s wall rather endearing... 

Anyway, the memory of how his colleagues had treated him before the _Armageddon’t_ (Crowley loves calling the failed Apocalypse so) still makes him angry. He had never been so close to swearing, if you don't consider what had happened just some minutes after (but discorporating _is_ quite a reasonable occasion to swear for the first time, isn't it? Fighting with Crowley, being shoved against a wall and punched by a colleague and discorporating, all of this during the same day? Even God would forgive him for saying that terrible f-word that one time, wouldn’t She?) ... 

But the angels hadn’t only hurt him, no, they had also threatened Crowley’s safety, how dare they? The demon already had to face the Apocalypse and Hell’s grudge against him, and then the angels, which were supposed to be good and compassionate beings, had hinted at the possibility of hurting him too? What terrible colleagues he has, really. When he thinks about it, he still wants to smash things.

Aziraphale returns to his bookshop. As he enters, he’s struck by the smell of his books. He inhales deeply and beams at his home, at his silent friends. He decides he won't pretend to sell anything this afternoon, so he flips the sign on his door to ‘close’. With a satisfied smirk (he _loves_ defying opening hours norms), he removes his coat and starts browsing the shelves. Sometimes, he reads a title aloud, sometimes he caresses a tome’s back, while remembering how he had acquired that particular book. Some of their stories are quite adventurous: he owns a scroll saved from Alexandria’s fire, the very first Bible to be printed by Gutenberg’s first printer, the personal diary of a long dead queen and so many other books he saved, purchased and, in a couple of neglectable occasions, stole (he had done such a thing as a last resort. It was to be considered as a favour to those volumes so he’s sure very few people would dare to blame him).

Aziraphale is quite sure no other bookseller, or better, no other being on Earth possesses such a vast and complete collection. There is hardly any volume which he hasn't laid his hands upon. But it’s never enough. They are never enough, he always wants more. He simply loves having them around, caring for them, rearranging them. He enjoys sorting them in the strangest ways: sometimes in alphabetical order (too dull), sometimes in chronological order (perfect for when he feels nostalgic about the past), per genre (probably too customer-friendly), or from least to most favourite, with two special sections devoted to first editions and gifts (Crowley _always_ knows which book Aziraphale is currently hunting for and is often able to obtain it before the angel. Then, he leaves it somewhere around the bookshop, pretending he’s got nothing to do with its ‘mysterious’ appearance. This little sneaky habit of his delights Aziraphale beyond measure) … There are so many options and he has tried them all. His favourites, of course, are the ones which confuse the occasional customer the most. How could he sell them, after all? His books are his most precious belonging, they comfort him when he feels alone, hopeless, sad. They make him laugh, cry and rejoice. They give him answers to questions he wouldn't dare asking anyone. 

Each of them holds a dream, a piece of reality and a unique experience. There are so many but they are so different. There is a saying, “Every story has already been written”. Well, Aziraphale doesn't agree, because he has read _millions_ of books and he _still hasn't found_ two which are the same. All of this amazes him in a way not even food can, so that’s why he’s always looking for a new one to add to his beloved collection.

When he reads, Aziraphale loses the sense of time, so he doesn't notice that the afternoon is slowly turning into the evening. He's a bit startled when he hears the bell on the door ringing, he lifts his gaze from the book like humans would open their eyes after a vivid dream. He knows it's Crowley even before the demon speaks because no one else would have been able to enter.

“Angel, I’m heeere” he calls out. Aziraphale does not close the book he was reading yet and answers back, “I’m between gifts and favourites!” The demon finds him in a second and grins as he reads the title of the tome still resting in Aziraphale’s hands. “ _Much Ado about Nothing_ , eh?”

Aziraphale smiles: it’s one of Crowley’s sneaky gifts.

“Yes, it's a favourite of mine” he answers, as the demon approaches and takes a peek at the pages, standing very close, just an inch from Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“...” he reads aloud. Then he pauses, flicking his tongue in the air. “Mmmh, new cologne?” he whispers in the angel’s ear.

“Oh my, yes! Do you like it?”

“Suits you well, yeah.” There is a moment of tense silence, then Crowley clears his throat and adds, “I guess I’ll start opening the wine?” He turns his back at the angel, so that Aziraphale can notice how tight his trousers are. Really, isn't it bad for blood circulation? But he must admit they fit him just right, highlighting his lean physique and his serpentine movements… The demon pauses at the end of the aisle, throwing him an amused glance over his sunglasses. The angel stiffly looks away, furiously thinking about something else, anything really, but somehow his mind always goes back on how handsome (and sexy) Crowley is. 

“Now now,” that devil comments, “You know I can sense those little yearning thoughts of yours, right?”

“Can you, now?” the angel asks, feeling that his face is warming up. 

“Not all the details, but I get the general vibes.”

“Then you must know that I’m _yearning_ for that wine.”

He faces Crowley again, watching as he wets his lips, grins but doesn't push further. For now. The angel finally puts down the book, which he has been clutching rather too violently during the last few moments, and together the two of them reach the backroom, uncork the bottle and start drinking. 

As the evening passes by, Aziraphale can't help noticing several little endearing details: the sunglasses which, hanging from his shirt, let him glimpse a speck of Crowley’s chest. His long limbs, draping on the sofa in such a pretentiously casual way. The more excitedly he talks, the more the wine he drinks. How his pupils dilate as he sets eyes on him. Eventually, the angel can't help but reach out and ruffle the demon’s hair. Crowley does a show of complaining, saying that he’s ruined his carefully coiffed hairstyle, but then leans into the touch.

Aziraphale is so fond of Crowley and this feeling warms him beyond measure. It makes him realise he’s yearning for something more than some wine.

Tonight, Aziraphale sleeps. It’s not exactly a first, he has given it a try a couple of times before, but he is going to sleep longer than ever. He's so comfortable in Crowley’s arms that when the sun rises, he insists on staying in bed. And wouldn't get up but for lunch.


End file.
